


The Strange Saga of Captain America and the Beard

by thegraytigress



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bearded Steve Rogers, Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Steve Rogers is a little shit, bearded Captain America
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-27
Updated: 2017-07-27
Packaged: 2018-12-07 18:21:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11629251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegraytigress/pseuds/thegraytigress
Summary: Or how Bucky develops a love/hate relationship with the thing that has taken up residence on his husband's face.





	The Strange Saga of Captain America and the Beard

**Author's Note:**

> **DISCLAIMER:** _The Avengers_ , _Captain America: The Winter Soldier_ , and _Captain America: Civil War_ are the properties of Walt Disney Studios, Paramount Studios, and Marvel Studios. This work was created purely for enjoyment. No money was made, and no infringement was intended.
> 
>  **RATING:** M (for language, sexual content, adult situations)
> 
>  **AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I don't even know what this is. Something really stupid inspired by Steve's new _Infinity War_ look. Fluffy beard worship, I guess? Against a backdrop of Stucky and a little smut? Eh, whatever. Enjoy! Oh, and extra thanks to Winterstar for the "jaw of justice" :-)

Bucky couldn’t say for sure when it happened.  Everything was going great.  After a year of being utterly lost, Steve had found him, brought him back to the Tower, and he and Wanda and a slew of doctors and therapists had painstakingly expunged HYDRA’s bullshit from his brain.  Stark had fixed his arm, which had been in need of some serious maintenance after a year on the run.  And, much to Bucky’s surprise, everyone on the team had been mighty understanding, had pretty much forgiven him for the atrocities he’d committed under HYDRA’s control and welcomed him with open arms.

Pretty soon, against all odds, his life was good.  _Really_ good.  He was an Avenger.  The goddamn _Winter Soldier_ , HYDRA’s most prized assassin, was an Avenger.  Holy shit, that blew his mind sometimes.  It blew his mind that after _seventy years_ of fighting and torture and brainwashing and basically serving as the world’s oldest prisoner of war, he was _here_ , living in Avengers Tower in the lap of luxury.  And it _really_ blew his mind that he was married to Captain America, that he had Steve the way he’d always wanted.  That they now had what _they_ always wanted back in Brooklyn as two young men desperately in love but forced to hide their relationship because of the times.  Just a few months ago, they’d gotten married.  _In public._   With people cheering.  So unbelievable.  Steve had kissed him right then and there and it was all over the internet because Steve was Captain America and the Avengers were practically celebrities and people _loved_ it.  It fucking _blew his mind._

So they had this life now, this domestic bliss mixed with the complete chaos of fighting against the worst of evil to protect humanity on the regular.  The dichotomy of it was exciting and delicious and crazy all at once, and Bucky wouldn’t have it any other way.

Only back to the initial point: he didn’t have a clue when _this_ had happened.  When the man he loved, the _only_ person he had _ever_ loved, had gone from clean-cut, clean-shaven, smooth-chinned, baby-soft-cheeks, to _this_ …  This stubbly, rough, unkempt, blondish-brownish _thing_ that was all over Steve’s face.

Just what the hell.

* * *

It started one morning a few days ago.  It was just a morning like any other really.  Bucky had been vaguely aware at daybreak that Steve had gotten up.  He usually did to go running at the asscrack of dawn.  Bucky had spent seventy years with not a single shred of control over when he was forced from slumber (which equated to the only peace he’d had back then), so one of the things he’d vehemently reclaimed first in his liberation from HYDRA was his choice to sleep in however long he damn well wanted.  It was an act of agency, autonomy, nothing short of it, though Steve teasingly told him it was just being lazy.  Whatever.

At any rate, Steve would go out for his jog after planting a kiss on Bucky’s head, and Bucky stubbornly burrowed himself back in the pillows and blankets on their ridiculously huge bed and went eagerly back to the land of Nod.  It wasn’t until later, hours later if the mid-morning sun streaming through the windows of their bedroom was any indication, that he was roused again, this time, unsurprisingly, by Steve lying beside him and kissing his back.

Now, to be fair, _this_ was one of Bucky’s favorite ways of being woken.  Steve taking his time, worshipping with his lips and tongue, slowly and tenderly coaxing Bucky out of slumber.  Steve’s hands roaming, mouth following, trailing up his spine and pushing down the sheets as he did.  Steve’s weight over him, perfect and familiar.  Steve murmured something, asking him if he was awake maybe, and maybe he was.  Somewhat?  He was pretty acutely aware of the heat that was pooling in his groin.  The blood was slowly draining down from his brain and impeding it from thinking even more than it already was.  He sleepily murmured some answer, grinning into his pillow and lifting his hips to let Steve get better access to him.  Steve grasped him, stroked him, kissing more and more at Bucky’s shoulder.  Something… didn’t feel quite right about that?  It wasn’t Steve’s hand on him; that was as incredible as it always was.  But something else was off.  It was… itchy?  Scratchy.  Steve’s lips were different.

He didn’t realize what it was until Steve had him turned over and pulled his pajama pants down and gotten him off.  Given how mind-blowingly _good_ Steve was, how proficient he’d become from the countless times they’d had sex, it took Bucky a second to even start thinking again.  He was panting into Steve’s mouth, Steve caught between kissing him and smirking.  Bucky got his eyes open and looked down Steve’s face.  “Did you shave?”

Steve leaned back, perplexed.  “Huh?”

Normally after a mind-blowing orgasm like that (particular first thing in the morning), Bucky would be smiling giddily and limply shivering in the pillows or plotting his revenge.  Right now he was just staring.  “Your face, Rogers,” he said, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed and too confused to really think about the fact that he _should_ be pouncing on Steve to return the favor.  “Did you shave it?”

Steve leaned back, rubbing his hand over his jaw.  “No?”

That didn’t make much sense.  Steve had obviously showered, which he usually did after his run (well, unless he wanted to do more than this in bed, which he often did, and Bucky was always willing to oblige him, and the after-sex shower was usually so handsy and slow it was almost as good as the sex itself).  Steve’s hair was a little damp, and he was all bare-chested and warm-skinned and smelled like that cheap, masculine soap he liked.  And he’d brushed his teeth, because all of his kisses had been minty fresh.  And he’d put boxers on, Bucky noticed now.  But his jaw looked… suspiciously unshaven.  Dark with yesterday’s five o’clock shadow.

Maybe that was a dumb, weird, little thing to pick up on.  However, when you were as close as Bucky and Steve had been their whole lives, living out of each other’s pockets, best friends and lovers and everything in between, _husbands_ now, well, you noticed dumb, weird, little things.  Like freshly-showered Steve almost _never_ went with unshaven Steve.  Sure Bucky had been kissed by Steve when Steve hadn’t shaved before.  Their lives didn’t always lend themselves to maintaining a schedule, and with the serum, Steve’s hair ( _all_ of it) tended to grow back fast.  There’d been plenty of times back in the war when Steve had been stubbly, times in the future when he came back late from a mission where the opportunity for proper hygiene hadn’t exactly been available.  And there’d been once when Steve had been pretty seriously banged up after a minor alien invasion, with a broken arm and broken leg, so he’d been laid up for a few days and had ended his convalescence with a bit of a beard.

But this wasn’t _normal._   Normally Steve shaved.  He showered, brushed his teeth, and shaved.  In that order.  Shower, check.  Teeth clean, check.  Shaving?  No check.  That was odd.

So he needed to ask.  “No?” he said, his forehead creasing even more in confusion.

Nonchalantly Steve lifted a shoulder.  Then he leaned down and kissed him more.  It felt weird that his soft, plush lips were just a little rough around the edges.  Just a little prickly.  Well, weird or not, Bucky moaned into Steve’s mouth and greedily sought more, which Steve was more than happy to give with a little chuckle.  When Steve finally pulled away, he shrugged again.  “Didn’t feel like it, I guess,” he said.

“ _You_ didn’t feel like.  Uh-huh.  Now who’s bein’ lazy.”

Steve grinned deviously and sprung up out of bed.  “Get cleaned up,” he lightly chastised.  “We got stuff to do.”

Bucky groaned, still wrung out from feeling so good, but he always followed his captain, stubbly or no.

* * *

Bucky didn’t think anything of it.  They went through their day.  Avengers stuff.  The Maria Stark Foundation Gala was coming up in a couple months, so Stark and his wife were running around like crazy trying to get things ready.  It was the Foundation’s big event, and they’d already coerced and cajoled and basically begged the team to make an appearance.  It was a black-tie affair, real ritzy, and neither Bucky nor Steve were thrilled about attending.  All part and parcel with being Avengers, particularly for Steve.  He was always in high demand at events like these, and Tony had persuaded him to deliver the keynote speech or some shit.  Bucky hated it even more than Steve did.  He suddenly had a much greater appreciation for how Steve had always felt back in Brooklyn when Bucky had dragged him to parties and dance halls and other social events, only now he was the one being dragged.  And it wasn’t like they had to hide their relationship _at all._ Not like they used to.  Still, Bucky was Steve’s plus-one, by all accounts, and it wasn’t like he was jealous, but he didn’t like the fact that these sorts of things almost always attracted rich assholes.  Plus, well, the Avengers had forgiven him for what he’d done as the Winter Soldier, but that didn’t mean anyone else had.  Not that he cared that much, but it hurt Steve when people were rude and judgmental.

Regardless, the day was spent training with Clint, working out tactical scenarios with Steve, Sam, and Natasha, training (God, they did a lot of training) with the entire team, and finally getting measured for tuxedos.  Super expensive ones, no less.  They hadn’t even worn tuxedos to their wedding.  This was ridiculous.

Right after the monkey suit fitting fiasco (okay, Bucky had maybe been less than enthusiastic and cooperative about it, and he’d pretty much let everyone know it which had led to Steve constantly smoothing the situation over before Pepper’s slew of tailors took off screaming), they’d gone back to their suite.  Bucky had made up for his orneriness with a steak dinner and a long round of making love.

And at that time of night, finding your guy prickly when you kissed him wasn’t all that unusual.  It was just par for the course, particularly for Steve, whose daily facial growth was more along the lines of a few days’ for everyone else.  Bucky hadn’t thought twice of it as he’d rocked inside Steve’s body, holding his face tenderly and kissing him breathless, thumbs brushing over the rough texture of along his cheeks.  Steve had whined and squirmed and begged and Bucky had laughed happily, nibbling along his chin and jaw as Steve had arched his back with pleasure.  He’d bit lightly into Steve’s exposed neck, right where the layer of stubble started.  Then he’d licked over it and hadn’t batted an eyelash.

The next morning, he stepped out of the shower and wrapped his towel around his waist.  He came to stand at the huge, posh double vanity, drying his hair with another towel.  Steve stood at his sink, towel around his own hips, and Bucky snuck up behind him to grab his ass.  Steve grinned dopily, turning to kiss him.  The kiss tasted like toothpaste, and his cheeks?  Still prickly.  Bucky pulled away and backed up a couple steps, confused and maybe just a little alarmed.  “Still not shaving?”

Steve went back to the sink, grabbing the bottle of mouthwash.  “Eh.”  He swished and spat and Bucky just watched.  Steve gave him a cheeky grin in the mirror, trying to be flirty but ending up just silly.  Then he walked out and swatted Bucky on the ass on his way by.

* * *

A couple days after that, the others noticed.  Right away at breakfast they noticed.  “Whoa, Cap,” Stark said, eyes wide and eyebrows practically up to his hairline.  “Nice crumb catcher.”

Everyone else turned from where they were assembled around the breakfast table.  In their defense, it probably was pretty shocking.  They’d never seen Steve as anything other than the clean-shaven, upstanding, wholesome image that seemed forever tied to Captain America, which had not even been slightly tarnished by coming out and marrying the Winter Soldier.  And, by the way, said image was not exactly anything even remotely close to the truth.  This idea of Steve being as good as apple pie and boy scouts and “The Star-Spangled Banner” being played on the 4th of July every year.  If the American public (or even the rest of the team) got an earful of Steve during the war (God, he could put sailors to shame with his cussing) or Steve in bed (not that he was particularly vocal.  That was Bucky, always running his filthy mouth, but on the rare occasions he got Steve worked up enough to talk, _Jesus tap-dancing Christ_ he talked) or Steve when he was riled about some injustice he perceived ( _“Fucking bullshit is what it is, Buck!  I mean, who the fuck let this asshole run for Congress?  I ain’t demeaning the process, but fucking fuck.”)_.  Steve had always been like that, even before the whole mantle of Captain America had been dumped on him.  It was pretty shocking, considering what a devout, godly, and polite woman Sarah Rogers had been.  Around others, Steve was the picture of good manners.  Bucky was pretty sure (and proud) of the fact that he was the only one who really saw Steve, the only one around whom Steve felt comfortable enough to be more than respectful and soft-spoken (said asshole senator was going to be at the Gala, and how much you want to bet Steve was going to be nothing but perfectly nice to him no matter what he thought of his policies?).

Steve Rogers was Captain America through and through.  Captain America was Steve Rogers.  But they _weren’t_ exactly the same, because Captain America was a symbol to _everyone_ and Steve Rogers was just a guy with a massive heart who did the best he could.

And Captain America _did not have a beard._

Which was exactly what he had now.  It was full-fledged, the brown hair tinged with blond enough that it appeared almost ginger in the right light.  And it perfectly covered his well-defined jaw, framing his full lips just right in a way that almost accentuated them (not that they needed accentuating.  Bucky Barnes had been staring at Steve Rogers’ lips since he’d learned what lips were meant for as a hormone-addled teenager, thank you very much).  It was, by all accounts, a really nice beard.  Full and even and not the least bit patchy _or_ bushy.

But, yeah, it was weird.  Weird for all of them and weird for Bucky, though Bucky didn’t say anything as he left Steve’s side to get himself a cup of coffee.  He hadn’t said anything all morning as Steve had showered, brushed his teeth, and not shaved, not even as he caught Steve checking out his new look a couple times in the mirror.  Bucky had no idea what the hell was up with this.

And he didn’t need to look at Steve to see the little frown of dismay on his face.  Or to picture him rubbing his chin.  He’d been doing that a lot too since the stubble had grown enough to be called more than stubble.  It was as if he was testing out the feel of the beard, just like he’d been examining the look of it.  Ridiculous.  “You don’t like it?” Steve said in that tone that meant he was looking for validation.

Everyone was still staring, somewhat wide-eyed and slack-jawed.  Tony was the first to answer.  Of course.  “It’s, uh…  It’s great.”  He smirked behind his coffee cup.  “Just…  Kinda makes for a lumberjack aesthetic?”

Steve frowned again as he took a seat at the breakfast table next to Thor.  He looked down at the red plaid button-down shirt he had on.  Bucky had warned him this morning that the ensemble plus the new beard made him look like a backcountry woodsman.  “What’s the matter with this?”

“Nothing!  Nothing.”  Stark was quick to cover himself, glancing at Bucky like he was checking to make sure there was no resting murder face being thrown his way.  There wasn’t.  For now.  It was okay in Bucky’s book for _him_ not be thrilled with the beard.  Everyone else?  They better be nice.  “It’s great, Cap.  You look very distinguished.”

“Not the word I’d use,” Natasha said.  It was pretty obvious what she thought if the sly grin curling her lips and the knowing look she shot Bucky were any indication.  Bucky rolled his eyes at her, leaning back into the counter and sipping his coffee.  She stood, taking her breakfast plate to the sink.  “And what brought this on?”

“Nothin’,” Steve said, like that should be obvious.

“Nothing?” Sam repeated incredulously.  “Dude, this is a pretty serious change for nothing.”

They might not have known about Steve’s less-than-decorous side, but they sure as hell knew about his fragile ego, particularly about his body.  Steve was built like Adonis and basically one of if not _the_ sexiest man alive (okay, Bucky was biased, but not really that much.  Not according to _People_ and a bunch of other magazines and talk shows and the entire internet).  Still, none of that had cured Steve of his timidity concerning his looks.  He still saw himself as this skinny stick of a nothing, short with a bent back and too sick for anyone to look twice at (except Bucky, that is.  Bucky had been looking at him once and twice and many times, constantly his whole life.  Even when HYDRA had taken his memories, he’d still _seen_ Steve and _known_ him).  It was pretty unbelievable, that Steve didn’t see how he affected everyone around him, how fucking _gorgeous_ he was, beard or no beard.  Bucky figured he could spend the rest of his days trying to convince him, and that would be a worthwhile lifetime indeed.

Regardless, that little hint of doubt from Sam only fueled the doubt already put there by Tony, and Steve frowned more.  He rubbed his jaw again.  “It’s not that big a deal.”  He’d said that a couple times already this morning, too, even without Bucky saying a fucking thing about the beard.  That was how damn self-conscious he was.  Of course, Bucky hadn’t bestowed a ringing endorsement either.  He had to be honest, at least to himself.  He wasn’t sure about this.

“Hey, I’m not saying it’s not cool.  I like it a lot, Steve,” Sam said, and there was nothing but genuine sincerity in his gaze.  It was Sam, so of course there was.  He clasped Steve on the shoulder.  “It’s fucking badass.”

Now that was probably overdoing it a little, but it had the desired effect.  Steve grinned broadly.  Bucky rolled his eyes more, sucking down some coffee and wondering if this innocent act was all some bullshit front to win people over.  Steve could be one hell of a little manipulator when he wanted to be.

But he was winning them over in droves.  Thor threw an arm around his shoulders.  “A full beard is a sign of maturity on Asgard,” he boldly declared.  “Only warriors christened by the fires of victory are permitted to wear one.  You should consider it a mark of accomplishment.  And now you and I can stand apart from the rest of these peons, who prefer the weaker and less meaningful ‘goatee’, as I believe they call it.”

That got Tony and Sam all in a huff, the latter more indignantly and the former with a big laugh that suggested the gauntlet was being thrown.  Wanda grinned around the last bite of her bagel, chewed politely, and then swallowed.  “Well, I believe it makes you look very rugged,” she declared sweetly.  Steve smiled at her.

“Can I touch it?” Peter asked.  He was leaning across the table, making to do it before Steve said yes.  And Steve of course said yes, shooting Bucky a smug look as the kid rubbed his cheeks.  “Whoa,” he breathed in awe, like he had at every juncture of becoming an Avenger.  Like _this_ was on the same level as his new Spidey suit and all the tech and meeting Asgardian demigods and rage monsters and living war legends.  “So awesome.  Cap with a beard.  Man, I can’t get anywhere close to this.”

“Kid, you’re, like, what, twelve?” Sam said.

“I’m sixteen!”

“Same thing.  You need manly hormones.  One day, young grasshopper, it will come.”  Peter looked annoyed and slumped back in his chair.

Steve consoled him with a pat to his shoulder before loading his plate with enough food to feed a small army and digging in.  Everyone was still going on about the beard, pretty enthusiastically.  “Thought it was time for a new look,” he proudly commented around a mouthful of eggs.  He waggled his eyebrows at Bucky.

“It’s a good one, Steve.”

“Yeah.  Looks suave.”

“No one says that anymore.”

“Well, whatever.  I am down with Captain America and his new facial hair.”

Steve grinned even more.  Yeah, that little shit was fishing for compliments.

* * *

See, the thing was, Steve could _never_ grow a beard back before the serum.  The guys at the breakfast table who gave Peter crap about it?  They had no idea.  Even _after_ the manly hormones set finally (and weakly) in, Steve still couldn’t manage much more than a little peach fuzz.  On the rare few times he’d let himself go without shaving a couple days, there’d been nothing but a few lone wisps of hair on his chin to show for his efforts.  It had hardly been enough to merit removal.  Definitely not enough that anyone other than Bucky had ever noticed.

Now everyone was noticing.  _Every time_ Steve interacted with the team, whether it be over dinner or concerning new battle contingencies or equipment upgrades or just plain old shooting the shit with them…  _Everyone_ stared at his face.  They seemed to marvel at the beard, at how much older and more mature it made him look (he who hadn’t aged a day since he was twenty-five and the army pumped the serum in his body and who wasn’t likely to be aging again any time soon according to Bruce).  They fawned over how refined and sophisticated and handsome he was.  Pepper said it was a really good change for him.  Natasha was giving him a sisterly nod of approval.  Sam was even chummier than he already was (which was saying something), Wanda even sweeter, Thor even… _Thor_ ier.  Peter looked at Steve like he was a god even more than he had before, like Steve was the exemplar man with which all men should be compared.  And despite all his teasing and his infinite names for Steve’s beard (a chin curtain and face fungus and a Tom Selleck and a dick rug when he was feeling especially crude), Tony was caught more than once admiring it.  _Coveting_ it, really, like he was jealous.

 _The beard_ was becoming _a thing._

And Bucky still wasn’t sure how he felt about it.  Yeah, the others were all ga-ga over how good Steve looked.  And, fuck, he did look good.  The beard did add gravity and wisdom and confidence to his face.  It did make him look more rugged, more accomplished, more powerful.  It made him seem bigger than he already was, erased the youthful, boyish charm that had been there and replaced it with something weighty.  And hairy.

But Bucky _liked_ the boyish charm.  He liked those big blue eyes that somehow seemed smaller now with the hair on Steve’s face, the hint of fragility that always clung to Steve before even when he was plowing down enemies on the battlefield like it was going out of style.  He liked that.  Maybe it was kind of selfish, but this was an adjustment for him, too.  A big one.

And the beard kind of tickled.

They were making out like a couple of horny teenagers on their couch with the local news running in the background when Bucky couldn’t hold in his laugh this time.  Loudly it burst out of him as Steve was kissing down his bare chest.  Steve looked up, disheveled and alarmed.  “What?”

“Fuck,” Bucky gasped.  He hadn’t meant to wreck the mood.  Seriously.  And he’d been able to get over the weirdness with the beard in short order every other time they’d been intimate.  Steve was still Steve.  He still kissed like Steve, touched like Steve, felt like Steve, inside and out.  But this time, with Steve’s chin caressing his stomach so lightly as he methodically licked and nipped like this was passionate and meant to turn him on more…  Yeah, it wasn’t working.  “Fuck, sorry.”  He laughed harder.

“What’s the matter?” Steve asked, leaning up now and obviously a lot concerned and a little miffed.

“Nothing,” Bucky sputtered.  “Just tickles.”

“What does?”  Steve couldn’t be this dense.  It was not possible.  Bucky rolled his eyes and jabbed a finger at his chin.  “Oh.”  Steve gave a crooked smile.  “You know, I have put up with stubble burn from you for months and months and months.  You never shave, Buck, not unless you gotta.  And I let you mark me up with it.  I’d even wager it turned you on doing it.”

Bucky tried to school his expression into something less pathetic at the mere mention of that.  “You’d wager right.”

“Then what gives?

“Nothin’.”

“I call bullshit on that.  You don’t like it.”  Steve’s smile hardened with disappointment.  He rubbed his jaw again for about the billionth time since the beard’s inception.  “You don’t think it makes me look good?  Don’t I seem older and smart and, I dunno, more sophisticated?”

Confused, Bucky shook his head.  “You always look good.  And I don’t care none ’bout that other stuff.”

Steve shrugged.  “I don’t either really.  But a change ain’t bad, right?”

Bucky didn’t know what to say.  The beat of silence cooled Steve’s desire.  Bucky could tell.  And he felt just a bit like an asshole because what right did he have to criticize Steve for growing a beard?  Fuck, he had no right to be down on Steve for anything _ever_.  Steve had saved him, brought him here, carved out a new life for them.  Steve had forgotten the bullets Bucky had put in his body on that helicarrier like they’d never happened.  Steve had fucking _married_ him, for crying out loud.  There was nothing he could ever do on God’s green earth that would make him worthy of Steve’s love.

Thus he just needed to deal with the beard.  Because Steve wanted fuzz on his face and Steve couldn’t manage that when they were kids and he could now.   And it was fine.  It was peachy keen.

He grabbed Steve’s shirt with his metal hand and hauled him closer to mash their lips together, rolling his hips up in a clear invitation.  “I like it fine.  Not sure about smarter and older and all that.  You look even more like a dumb punk to me.”  Steve gasped as Bucky scraped his teeth down his chin.  Not entirely pleasant but well worth the moan.  “And I do like the idea of you marking me, too.”

That got Steve going again, going with fervor, and he started kissing all over Bucky’s body.  Bucky let himself melt into it, into the soft, whispery rasp of the beard over his thighs, inside his thighs, higher.  It didn’t exactly mark him.  He could tell.  It didn’t burn or sting or anything like that.

It still just tickled.  Bucky swallowed down his giggles and focused on the good stuff.  Thankfully, Steve always made that easy as pie.

* * *

The whole thing didn’t get totally ridiculous until the call came in for the Avengers to assemble a couple days later.  This was the first time since the whole beard event had begun.  It wasn’t like there was time for Steve to run upstairs to their suite and shave, so out he went to lead the team, dressed in the iconic Captain America uniform with his equally iconic shield on his back.

And he looked _so weird_ with the helmet on and the beard.  Bucky had been slowly getting used to the beard, acclimating to it and accepting it.  It was fine that it was becoming normal, a _new_ normal.  Like the new normal after he’d escaped from HYDRA.  The new normal after Steve and Sam had rescued him.  The new normal after Wanda and the therapists had fixed his brain and Tony had fixed his arm so he hadn’t been a threat and/or in pain all the time.  The new normal after Steve and he had reclaimed their relationship.  The new normal after they’d married.

The new normal after the coming of _the beard._

Said beard was poking out around the chin strap of Steve’s helmet.  It was poofier than normal because of the other straps constraining it and pushing it up and out.  It was just _odd_ , and the whole team was subtly off its game because of it.  Every time any of them crossed Steve’s path on the streets of Beijing where today’s insane altercation was occurring, it just threw the whole rhythm of the fight.  Steve noticed things weren’t right, that Sam was uncharacteristically slow to respond and Tony was rambling even more than normal and Peter nearly swung into a wall and Black Widow actually _missed_ , so the overly dramatic asshole pulled his helmet off and climbed up on some wreckage to rally his troops and help calm the people in the crossfire.

And, wouldn’t you know it, a few (hundred) civilians caught some footage of that moment which then ended up all over the internet.  Pretty soon a video of Captain America, sans helmet but with facial hair and standing atop a crushed car with his shield held up in a block, protecting people like an avenging, bearded, angel, beautiful and striking and powerful and all that…  Yeah, it was everywhere in a matter of minutes.  It trended on social media.  It was retweeted and reblogged millions of times, and in its wake was a flurry of discussion from all over the world.  People were wondering what was going on, what the deal was, why Steve had grown the beard.  That was a _far_ more important question than anything to do with the actual attack, like who the aliens were this time or why they’d come.  No, discussing the intricate, profound reasoning behind Captain America’s choice to sport a new beard into battle was about as important as debating the meaning of life.

One thing everyone agreed upon, though.  Captain America looked _hot_ with a beard.

Later that evening, as the team gathered for pizza and beer, the TV was on covering the post-battle fallout as per the norm when the Avengers went out on a mission.  This time, though, most of the chatter concerned (of course) _the beard._

“It’s been trending on Twitter all afternoon.  #BeardyCap has become one of the fastest growing tags in the history of social media.  Everyone seems to have something to say about this shocking development today, that Steve Rogers, otherwise known as Captain America, was seen on the battlefield sporting this new beard.”  The anchorwoman on CNN cut off as the image switched to one of the gazillion people had taken of the fight.  There was Steve, in all of his patriotic, bearded glory.  You couldn’t have photoshopped a more perfect picture.  “And this change comes just months after Rogers wed James Barnes.  The question as to whether or not this means something – a change in his role within the Avengers, perhaps? – is difficult to answer without an official statement–”

Bucky grunted in irritation and stuffed pizza into his mouth.  He chewed perfunctorily, trying to be pissed (even though it tasted damn good), and washed it down with a swig of beer.  “BeardyCap,” he muttered afterward.  “Why the hell would we release an official statement about this?”

“You’re just jealous your man-bun’s not trending,” Tony joked, polishing off another bottle.  He raised it in a hint of a toast.  “It’s a kickass man-bun anyway.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and reached up to pull the tie from his hair, letting the locks loose around his face.  “And I’ll tell them the reason,” he said.  It was bothering him more and more, why Steve suddenly decided to sprout this thing on his face.  He knew Steve better than anyone, better than he knew himself some days, and he still couldn’t figure it out.  He was a tad bit ashamed that he’d spent so much time thinking about it when he could have, well, _asked._   But, damn, it seemed weird to ask, particularly if Steve was doing this to tease him, which was a distinct possibility.

So he turned it around and around in his head.  Sarah Rogers had always insisted Steve present himself cleanly.  She’d been a real stickler for that, a clean face and clean fingernails and ironed trousers and straight ties.  The Rogers family had been poor, but they’d never _worn_ poverty.  And that sort of mindset had stuck with Steve through her death, through the war.  It wasn’t like the beard was _dirty,_ though, or messy or scraggly or anything like that.  It just wasn’t Steve.

Then again, Steve still dressed his ridiculously built body like he was ninety pounds soaking wet.  He had a whole closet full of smedium shirts (he didn’t even know what a smedium was – at least Bucky didn’t think he did).  He had no fashion sense now and never had.  No sense of culture and no knowledge of what was trendy.  Maybe he’d grown the beard because of that?  To be more updated and less clean-cut?  The wholesome image of Captain America didn’t always seem to jive too well with the way this country was nowadays.

Or maybe Steve was having some sort of internal struggle with who he was?  Rebelling a little against the symbolism that had been thrust upon him?  He didn’t seem one bit conflicted.  Or maybe this was discontent from getting married?  Or depression?  God, that couldn’t be it, though Bucky knew better than anyone that taking care of personal hygiene issues or making radical changes in appearance could herald internal strife.  Or maybe this was in reaction to making a silly vow to grow old together when neither of them was growing older at all? 

 _No._ Steve would have _told_ him if he was unhappy or upset or worried about something.

Blah.  Hell if Bucky knew what was going on.  “Yeah, Captain America’s too fucking lazy to shave.  Whoop-de-shit.  That’s the reason.”

Tony laughed.  “Well, the why doesn’t matter.  Face it, Barnes.  The beard’s a good look on him.”

Obviously Bucky hadn’t been doing a very good job hiding his lack of enthusiasm for his husband’s new look.  Tony slapped him on his metal shoulder before heading off to find Bruce.  Bucky sighed, looking over the team as everyone relaxed and enjoyed the evening before spotting Steve over by Peter and Wanda.  He was wildly gesticulating as he went through some story about Bucky and him making mischief in Brooklyn in their youth.  Bucky recognized it, of course, as the one where they had to ride back home in the back of a freezer truck because he’d blown all their train money on hotdogs.  He’d heard the tale before.  Hell, he’d lived it.  Wanda and Peter were watching with rapt attention.  Across the living area, Sam and Natasha were listening too.  And Thor was laughing at every lame joke and stupid thing Steve said.

Steve himself was flush and bright-eyed and so damn happy that Bucky couldn’t lie to himself.  He had to admit it.

The beard did look good.

* * *

Steve’s razor had sat there, unused, for a couple months now.  Bucky figured it was probably starting to rust.

At least #BeardyCap had stopped trending so much, though every time the Avengers went out to do their thing, _every time_ Steve was seen in public, that stoked the embers of social intrigue.  There were pictures of him everywhere.  Steve had actually taken to going out into battle without his helmet, claiming the straps were too uncomfortable and distracting.  Stark also claimed he was designing Steve a new “facial flora”-safe edition, but Bucky figured that was a load of shit because it taken Stark all of a couple days to completely reverse engineer and craft him a new _arm._   A new helmet that didn’t “bother the beard” shouldn’t require weeks of effort.

It was just more proof that everyone _liked_ the beard.  Everyone liked Captain America with a beard.  More and more photos were caught of Steve fighting in his suit and with his shield but without his helmet.  His hair had gotten a little longer, too, so lush, blond and brown locks flying every which way usually accompanied whatever dramatic, incredible pose was being captured.  Steve grinned like a smug bastard every time anyone mentioned that the beard was a nice addition or a pleasant change or – _God_ – a national treasure.  Sweet as candy, humble Steve Rogers was gloating.  _Just_ a little.  Rubbing it in so subtly that Bucky couldn’t _really_ call him out on it, because he still couldn’t be sure if the little shit he’d married (and he’d married the biggest little shit in the history of little shits) was really playing him.  Trolling him, as modern parlance would call it.  Like with “losing” the helmet because it itched.  Wouldn’t it make more goddamn sense to lose the beard?  That didn’t fit in with the tactical precision and careful preparation that Steve was always trying to drill into the team during training.  Bucky didn’t think Steve would be so silly as to do all this to prove a point (and what point was he trying to prove exactly?), but Steve was sassy and smart, and all his _I told you so_ ’s were so damn sly that Bucky had no idea what was going on.

He did know that wearing a beard as a fashion statement was resurging in popularity among male celebrities and the general public alike.  At least, if the news was to be believed.  _Just what the hell._

“You gonna trim that thing at least?”

Steve was laying on the couch, completely sprawled out over it, ankles crossed at one end and book open above him at the other.  He tore his gaze away from the page, darting it over to Bucky.  “What?”

Long-suffering, Bucky sighed and plodded over to the couch.  He pulled the book from Steve’s hands, closed it, and set it on the coffee table.  Then he poked at the beard.  “This fucking thing,” he clarified, like he needed to.  “You’re looking like Abe Lincoln.”

Steve frowned and felt his chin.  _Again._ “I guess it’s a little long.”

To Bucky, it was more than a little long.  He pushed his finger into the whiskers coming off Steve’s chin, and they curled around it.  His beard was big enough to _curl around_ his finger.  “Fix this, Rogers.  It’s gone from tickling to feeling like I’m banging a bush.”

Steve groaned.  “It’s too much work.”

Christ, was that _really_ it?  The reason behind this whole thing?  “Did you really think that letting your face go was gonna free you from the prison of shaving for forever?”  Steve frowned, reaching for his book again.  Bucky pushed it out of his reach.  “Nuh-uh.  Sorry, doll, but all those nice papers falling all over themselves to compliment you and call you the new icon for a bearded millennium?  They’re gonna be calling you Paul Bunyan the lazy-ass logger if you don’t deal with this.”

“Ugh,” Steve grunted.

“Oh, for God’s sake…  Get up.  I’ll do it for you.”

Steve’s eyes twinkled, and his grin was nothing short of utter relief.  There were goddamn stars in his eyes.  Bucky groaned in annoyance and pulled Steve up with his metal hand.  Then he shoved him to their room and their bathroom.  “Sit, ya lazy mook,” he grumbled, pushing Steve to the closed toilet.  Steve did as he requested, still beaming like he’d finally gotten favor from someone he’d been sweet on for forever.  Or someone he’d been trying to win over?  Just what was up with that?  So the beard was some sort of ploy to get more attention from Bucky?  Like Bucky didn’t already _shower_ him with attention?  Bucky had always been handsy, affectionate, easy with endearments and kisses.  That part of him had come back from the darkness so easily with Steve there to call to it.  And, beard or no, they’d fucked more times in the past six months than they had the whole of their time together in Brooklyn or during the war.

So it wasn’t like Steve was _wanting_ for attention from him.  Still, that little thorn of guilty insecurity poked its way into his heart as he opened up his own shaving kit.  There was a beard trimmer in there, and scissors, and he grabbed those first.  He lifted Steve’s chin and set to cutting off the really long parts.  “I ain’t gonna find stuff in here, am I?”  He grinned teasingly.  “Food?  Animals nesting?”

“Lord, Buck, no,” Steve replied, rolling his eyes.

“Well, that’s why guys grow beards this long, ain’t it?  To store stuff.  Like a squirrel does.”

Steve balked.  “It ain’t that long.”

Bucky supposed not, but there was definitely some mass to it now.  He worked silently for a second, actually enjoying how soft the beard was as he clipped and caught the fine hairs as they fell before tossing them into the trash.  He’d noticed that before, of course, that the beard was really soft, but he hadn’t let himself appreciate it much.  He still wasn’t sold.  There were some merits.  He was way past denying that altogether.  But it was still just so… _weird._

Steve seemed to be enjoying this, eyes somewhat half-lidded and dazed.  He was totally oblivious to Bucky’s internal debate.  “You know,” Bucky said after a bit, just to break the silence.  Well, partly just to break the silence.  “I could shave it for you.  If you want.”

Steve’s eyes opened all the way.  “Huh?  Why would I want to shave it?”

“Just offerin’,” Bucky grumbled, cheeks heating in shame for even suggesting it.

Steve actually pouted a second.  It’d be adorable if it wasn’t so damn infuriating.  “Trim me down to your level then.”

Bucky rolled his eyes and reached for the electric trimmer.  He’d never actually used one before.  After a couple seconds of fumbling, he had the plastic end attached to the blades, and it was humming in his hand.  With his metal fingers cupping Steve’s head to angle it the way he wanted, he experimentally ran the device up Steve’s cheek.  That took even more off, little clumps of hair floating to the floor around them.  Pleased with the thin and even length the trimmer left behind, Bucky nodded to himself and really went to it.  The trimmer buzzed happily as he worked.  “Really, Stevie, it’d be quick.  I can just flick this plastic thing off and–”

“I like the beard,” Steve said defensively, “even if you don’t.”

Bucky bit his lower lip.  Now he’d suddenly wandered into a minefield.  “I don’t _not_ like it.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“Well, I definitely ain’t fond of this caveman thing you have going here.  You looked worse than Dugan did that time we ran that July op in Russia and he lost his razor.”

Steve chuckled.  “I forgot about that.  Yeah, you guys were assholes to him.”  Not one of the Howlies had shared their shaving kits with the poor guy.  He’d been such a pain in the butt the whole trek to Moscow, pissing and moaning about the heat, about the drive, about the _walk_ , about HYDRA and the war and how much everything had sucked.  It’d been an unspoken pact that anyone bitching that much didn’t deserve the comforts of personal hygiene.  They’d all enjoyed watching the man’s already bushy mustache turn into a ridiculously bushy beard over the course of six weeks until the mission had ended and they were granted leave back at base in London.

Bucky grinned.  “Just remembered it the other day.”  His memories came back like that sometimes, somewhat randomly.  “Probably jogged by looking at your messy mug.”

“God, Buck, come on.  I just get tired of shaving all the time,” Steve grumbled as Bucky finished up with the trimmer.  “You would be too if your hair grew in as fast as mine.  You can’t even deal with your own facial issues.”

Bucky shrugged, glancing at his own scruffiness in the mirror.  He supposed that was true.  “Guess so,” he said, turning to Steve as he took an appraising step back.  Steve did look a fair sight better.  Hell, Bucky had to admit he’d done bang-up job.

His gaze wondered down to Steve’s smedium shirt, which was basically hiding nothing of his ridiculous eight-pack of abs and equally ridiculous pecs and shoulders and biceps and… “Guess I should be thankful you ain’t hairy elsewhere.”

Steve cocked a playful eyebrow to that.

About a blink and a breath later, they were both naked in the shower with the water on hot and loud, but even that wasn’t loud enough to cover Bucky’s moans as Steve knelt in front of him, pushing his hips into the wall and sucking him hard.  His hair being a little longer gave Bucky more to grab, which was good because this was so unbelievable he was pretty sure he’d fall on his ass if he didn’t have something to hold on to.  Steve licked and kissed harder and pulled off to bite lightly at Bucky’s thigh and rub his newly shorn cheeks all over with a sly grin all over his wet lips.  It burned so nice, prickly and bristly and–

“God, I hate you,” Bucky whined.

Steve laughed, a rumble against really sensitive places (like his dick).  “But you love the beard.  You can admit it.”

Bucky was too desperately out of his mind to even argue.  “Fine, you asshole.  I love the beard!”

And Steve, the smug little shit, smiled triumphantly and rewarded him profusely for his compliance.

* * *

“Okay, this is bullshit,” Steve said one morning as he drank his coffee and read the papers.  He’d already raced through the _New York Times_ and the _Wall Street Journal._   Now he was doing the _New York Post._ Page six of the _Post_ , to be exact.  “Just listen to this, Buck.  ‘My Theory Behind the Beard: The internet was abuzz yesterday with newly released pap pictures of Steve Rogers and husband, James Barnes, enjoying a quiet, romantic evening at Coney Island last Saturday.’”  Bucky knew the pictures well.  Some jerk paparazzi guy had trailed them from the Tower apparently, so despite their best efforts to be incognito (which usually worked, even with how many heads Steve typically turned and with how much the metal arm should be a red flag), they’d been spotted on the Boardwalk during the evening, holding hands and having ice cream and kissing.  These were the first public images of them since the wedding.  Bucky never fathomed he’d see the day where their relationship was not only _okay_ but _popular._

Steve went on.  “‘It’s not our policy typically to condone or even acknowledge pap shots.  These guys risk their lives for us on the regular, so the least we can do is give them their privacy.  Still, it got this writer thinking.  I’ve read a lot of these theories about why Steve Rogers suddenly appeared with a beard last month in China, but I don’t think anyone’s really broached the topic of him doing it to make Barnes, who’s typically appeared pretty disheveled and bedraggled, feel more accepted.  Look, God knows after what happened to Barnes, the torture and all that, it’s probably not the easiest to care about what you look like day to day.  So maybe the beard is an open love letter and a subtle hint to the rest of us that Captain America is trying to be more like the Winter Soldier than the other way around.’”

Steve had read that with no small amount of venom in his tone, and now he tossed the paper to the table in utter disdain.  “What the hell does that even _mean?_ ”

Bucky shrugged.  He went back to his pan of eggs he was cooking.  “Dunno.”  Truth be told, it didn’t bother him too much what people thought of him.  He’d been exonerated by the governments of the world, forgiven by the team, accepted by them and treated like a friend, which was way more than he deserved.  So having a couple people questioning what he looked like?  Whatever.

Steve wasn’t so content to turn the other cheek when it came to people saying anything even _slightly_ untoward about the man he loved.  “Well, it’s bullshit.  I didn’t grow the beard to make some kinda statement, let alone a statement about us.”  Bucky shrugged again.  He wasn’t sure if that was an invitation to talk about Steve’s reasons for growing the beard, but he didn’t take it regardless.  He was pretty much past wondering why.  The beard was just a fixture in their lives now.  It was just the way Steve looked.

“Why can’t anyone get over it?” Steve asked exasperated.

Bucky scooped the eggs onto two plates already loaded with bacon and toast.  “In their defense, you’re the one who keeps running out into battle with no helmet on.  It’s like screaming, ‘look at the beard!  Bask in its hairy glory!’”

Steve gave him a level, stern glare.  “Tony’s still working on new head gear.”

Bucky laughed dismissively, setting the plate in front of his fuming husband before kissing the top of his head.  “Sure, doll.”

Steve was grumpy about it the whole rest of the day.  Honestly, Bucky didn’t know what he’d expected.  This crap had been going on for a couple months now.  Every time Captain America went out there to fight and lead the Avengers to victory, doing so with the beard just threw fuel on the fire.  Every time he showed up to do any sort of press or charity event, it also threw fuel on the fire.  _Every_ time he so much as peeked his head out of the Tower, someone somewhere snapped a picture of him.  In the age of smartphones and social media, it was inevitable.  Natasha had told Bucky (with that dry amusement in her tone that only she could manage so effectively) that Steve had entire communities of people online who were devoted to _the beard._   Studying it and analyzing it and wondering from whence and why it had come.  Like they were following a religion.  Like the world had fundamentally changed.  Like it had stopped spinning or tilted differently on its axis or something.  Like this was the second coming.  It was ridiculous.

Ridiculous or not, beard fever continued to sweep the nation.

And then there was the actual beard fever.  Or just the fever, afflicting the idiot with the beard.  It wasn’t even a fever, to be fair.  And it wasn’t even because Steve had _yet again_ gone out into battle without his helmet.  That wasn’t what had gotten him hurt this time (which was good, because Bucky – and everyone else – would have read him the riot act).  The alien glop with which he’d been hit had pretty much covered him from head to toe.  It made him, well, stupidly high.  Bruce had immediately declared the situation fine; exposure to the goo hadn’t done more than gotten Steve drunk off his ass the way not much else could nowadays.  The serum was metabolizing it, so all would be well tomorrow.  Thus, once they hosed him off in quarantine so that he couldn’t infect anyone else, he was relegated to their suite, confined there until he worked this crap out of his system.

Which left Bucky to take care of him.  His cross to bear, apparently.  In sickness and in health and all that.

It wasn’t so bad.  It was way less stressful than most the other times he’d looked after Steve when he’d been sick, that was for sure.  Steve was loopy and babbling and handsy, which was mostly just entertaining and endearing.  He’d been singing off-key almost constantly, randomly laughing about stuff that wasn’t really all that funny, generally not making a lick of sense and making an adorable fool of himself (not that anyone besides Bucky would know that, but he might file it away for good blackmail material later).  The biggest problem was keeping Steve somewhat contained to their bedroom.  He kept getting up and wandering around drunkenly.  Thankfully, a few hours into babysitting, the effects of the drug went from loopy and energetic to loopy and sleepy, so Bucky was able to curtail Steve’s restlessness and get him on the couch.

Now Steve’s head was in his lap.  Bucky was absently carding his metal hand though his hair, reading a book with the other during this, the first quiet moment all evening.  He was pretty sure Steve had mumbled and giggled himself to sleep.

Nope.  “Bucky?”

Bucky sighed wearily.  “What, doll?”

“Why don’t you like my beard?”

To Bucky, that seemed to come out of nowhere.  They hadn’t talked about the beard at all (for fuck’s sake, it wasn’t like this thing ran their lives) in a few days, not since that article in the _Post._   “I told you, Steve,” he said.  “I like it.”

“Naw, you said you don’t _not_ like it,” Steve clarified.  With Bucky, his Brooklyn accent always came out more than it did with the others or in public.  Now?  He was hardly intelligible to someone not fluent in sick-Steve slur.  “It ain’t the same, and don’t tell me otherwise.”

“Steve–”

“Be honest.  I can take it.  You think it’s stupid.  Or ugly.  Or both.”

“It’s not either of those things.  It’s just…”  God, how to explain this when even _he_ didn’t entirely understand what his problem was.  “I dunno.  When I was waking up from what they did to me…  Your face was the only thing I knew.  _Everything_ was tied to it.  Who you are and who am I and who we were.  It was home.  You know?  It still is home.  And the beard’s just…  It’s new, is all.”  It hurt to say that.  Once the words were out, though, he knew it was the truth.  “I love you, Steve, no matter what you look like.  And I am the last person alive that has any right to tell you what to do with your dumb face.”  He smiled, setting his book down and looking down at Steve where he was turned into his stomach.  He took a deep breath.  “Did you…”  This had been bothering him, too, since the other day.  He’d tried to play it cool about it at the time, but it was sticking with him.  “That bullshit article wasn’t right, right?  You didn’t do this _for me_.  That’s not why.  Because you don’t need to do that, _lower_ yourself or whatever to my level.  I don’t care what people think.  Never have.  So that’s not why, right?  Right, doll?”

The only answer was a really loud snore against his belly.  Bucky rolled his eyes.  He opened his book back up and went back to Boo Radley and Scout and Dill.  And he let his hand skirt lower so that he was rubbing Steve’s cheek rather than his hair so much.  Petting the beard.  He couldn’t exactly feel it with the metal hand, not even with Stark’s enhancements, but he knew well what it was like.  Soft and somehow silky and a little rough all at the same time depending on the angle of the hairs and the way he was stroking.  It was familiar now.  Alright.

Still…  It’d be wrong to shave it off while Steve was sleeping, right?

* * *

That weekend the Maria Stark Foundation Gala finally arrived.  Bucky grumbled the whole while as he’d showered, shaved, and put his tux on.  Grumbled his way through getting into the limo.  Grumbled the entire drive there.  Grumbled and brooded.

Steve grasped his metal hand from where it was resting on the leather seats between them.  “Resting murder face again,” he teased lightly.  Bucky glared at him, him and his ridiculously handsome face.  Steve looked absolutely dapper in his tuxedo, beard and all.  Bucky could already imagine the media swooning, picturing the heated discussions over what was better with the beard: his Cap suit or Armani.  Frankly, Bucky thought no suit at all was the winner, and no one else could weigh in on that opinion.  That darkly possessive thought made him feel a little better.

Steve went on after a beat.  “You’re awfully prickly tonight.”

“Don’t like these things,” Bucky answered simply.

“I know.”  Steve lifted their hands where they were joined and kissed Bucky’s metal fingers.  “Love that you’re here, though.  And I love that wore it.”

“This stupid get-up?”

Steve grinned.  “Well, that too.  But I meant this.”  He kissed Bucky’s wedding ring on his metal hand.  He _never_ wore it; it didn’t feel right to have it on his other hand, like their marriage wasn’t legitimate or something, but it didn’t seem any better to have it on his left hand, either.  The fake hand.  Even given this arm wasn’t the one HYDRA had made him, it seemed wrong.

But having Steve kiss it like that, the beard barely registering against the sensors in his fingers…  “Love you, Buck.”

The limo slowed to a stop, someone opened the doors, and out they went, hand in hand.  The paparazzi and the media were there in full force, and cameras flashed in a flurry of bright lights as Steve and Bucky made their way onto the red carpet.  There were already a ton of highly influential people present: politicians and congressmen and celebrities, other CEOs and philanthropists.  The richest and most famous.  What the hell were two poor street kids from Brooklyn doing here?

The second the media caught wise to the fact Captain America had arrived, though, all those other folks might as well have been nobodies.  They veritably swarmed Steve and Bucky.  Dozens of questions were thrown their way all at once.

And they _all_ had to do with the goddamn beard.

“Captain Rogers, are you trying to make a statement with this look?”

“Captain!  Is this a sign that your clean-cut image is a thing of the past?”

“What do you say to the people who think it’s not right for Captain America to look so hip?”

“Is this an attempt to be a man’s man?”

“Mr. Barnes!  Mr. Barnes!  What do _you_ think about it?”

“Just fuck,” Bucky murmured as Steve pulled him through the throng and into the massive ballroom.  Sam and Natasha and the others were waiting, and Bucky had never been so glad to see them.  He’d faced down the worst of HYDRA’s tortures for decades, but that had scared the shit out of him.

The Gala was nice, as nice as something this hoity-toity could be.  Bucky felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb.  He did.  Unfortunately, Steve was immediately dragged away; he was the guest of honor at this shindig after all, the keynote speaker, and Bucky was just his plus one.  That was alright, Bucky supposed.  He didn’t mind _too much_ , and the team kept him company.  He’d never liked this shit back during the war either, when Steve had been forced to schmooze the brass on occasion in order to keep morale high and the fight well-funded.  He’d hated how other people had touched him, shaking his hand or grabbing his arm and placing their hands on his back.  That had rankled him.

Okay, so maybe there _was_ a little jealousy involved.  There had been back then, and there was now, too.  And _maybe_ that might be possibly one of the reasons he didn’t like the beard.  Captain America belonged to the world.  Bucky had made his peace with that.  But Steve Rogers?  Steve was his and he was Steve’s and he didn’t like people making Steve do this shit that he _knew_ Steve hated for the sake of the greater good.  And the beard…  Well if the last couple months had taught him anything it was that the beard was a magnet for attention.

So there.  At least he’d finally been honest with himself.

With that in mind, that he was Steve’s and Steve was his and none of this really mattered, he summoned up the patience to grin and bear it.  He didn’t end up seeing Steve for most the night.  He always had an eye on him; being one of the best snipers in the world made him quite good at tracking his target.  Steve was being shuffled by Tony and Pepper from rich person to rich person, shaking hands and smiling that bashful smile of his and doing what he’d been brought to do.  And, of course, when it came time to meet that asshole senator, Steve was nothing but polite and respectful, Sarah Rogers’ painstakingly-instilled good manners shining through.

Tony and Pepper kept him so occupied, so busy wooing the guests into giving up their undoubtedly massive donations, that Steve hardly even looked Bucky’s way all through dinner and the ball.  Pretty soon Steve was giving his speech.  He stood up at the podium, cameras flashing again and video rolling, and spoke confidently and eloquently about what a good cause this was, about what an honor it was to serve it and serve this nation and this world.  It was a really good speech.  Bucky hardly recognized Steve up there, though, with the beard and the tuxedo.  He didn’t like that at all.

Much later, Bucky slipped out to the ballroom’s terrace.  He was alone, leaning on the balcony railing and breathing in the warm summer air for quite a while, when Steve finally came to him.  “Sam said you were out here pouting,” he said as he strolled over.

Bucky grumped.  “Getting a breath of fresh air, but whatever.”

Steve came to stand beside him, looking out over this corner of the city.  “Nice night.”

It really was, despite Bucky’s less than happy mood.  “Yeah.”  Inside the ballroom, the music picked up.  There was a full orchestra, a big brass band even.  Stark had really spared no expense.  Bucky glanced at Steve out of the corner of his eye.  “You done with your duties?”

Steve grinned, sliding just a bit closer.  “Think so.”

“So I can have you back now?”

“Probably.  Why?  What’d you want to do?”  Steve tipped his head to the city.  “Blow this popsicle stand?”

Finally the tension inside Bucky eased a bit.  “Maybe.  In a couple minutes.  There’s no one out there with us.  Don’t know if you noticed.”

“I did.”

“No one to bother us.  No one takin’ pictures.  No one talkin’ ’bout nothin’.”  Bucky took Steve’s arm and tugged him closer.  The horns swelled inside, and the cymbals swished, and the strings sang.  “Dance with me?”

Steve’s grin got even wider.  “Of course.”

The next thing Bucky knew, Steve had him in his embrace.  He wrapped his own arms around Steve’s shoulders and buried his face close.  They weren’t dancing so much as swaying to the slow melody, pants to pants and chest to chest, drifting in the quiet outside and enjoying every second of it.  It reminded Bucky of their apartment in Brooklyn, dancing like this to the soft murmur of the radio.  Wrapped up in each other’s arms and lost in each other’s eyes, close enough that it seemed like there could never been anything between them.

Only Steve was bigger and brawny and beardy.

Eventually, Steve pulled back.  He cradled Bucky’s face after brushing some of his hair behind his ear.  Then he reverently kissed Bucky’s forehead and each of his eyelids and his cheek.  “Always like this,” he murmured into Bucky’s skin.  “So smooth.”

Bucky chuckled, blushing just a bit and glad that the low light would hide it.  He cupped Steve’s face too, sweeping his thumbs along his cheekbones.  “So… itchy.”

Steve laughed.  “Yeah, it is a little,” he conceded.

Bucky leaned closer and whispered conspiratorially into Steve’s ear.  “You know there’s a way to fix that, right?”

Steve shut him up with a deep kiss.

* * *

The next morning, the saga of the beard came to an abrupt and unpredictable close.

Bucky groaned into his pillow as he slowly woke, roused by a series of soft kisses up his back.  The smell of Steve’s soap filled his next deep breath, and he turned, feeling acres of warm, smooth skin blanketing him.  It was so good, _so good,_ the lips caressing his left shoulder and the scars there before coming higher to nibble at his ear.  Moaning again, he went lax to the hands exploring his skin, to the mouth wetly painting it, to the smooth chin brushing over it–

Wait.  What?

Bucky opened his eyes and rolled over, blinking in surprise.  “What the hell?  You _shaved_ it?”

Steve was kneeling over him, fresh from his shower, hair still damp, breath minty fresh, and _without the beard._   It was fucking _shocking_ , seeing him as he always used to be.  Clean cheeks and chin and jaw.  His face, so familiar and right and yet different and wrong now.  It felt like it had been _ages_ since he’d been like this.  “Yeah,” he said.

“You have to be shittin’ me,” Bucky said, shaking his head.  “I just got used to it!”

Steve sighed.  He flopped down on the bed next to Bucky on his back, draping an arm over his eyes.  “Them’s the breaks?”

Bucky didn’t get it.  _At all._   “What?  I mean, why?  I mean, you liked it…”

Steve peeked out from beneath his elbow.  His lips, at long last free of the cage of facial hair, pulled into a small smile.  “Yeah, but you didn’t.”

Bucky propped himself up on his arm, horrified.  “Ah, fuck, Steve.  No, come on.  I loved it.  But what I think shouldn’t matter!  The only person’s opinion that matters is _yours,_ doll, and if I made you feel bad about it, I was a being a dick and I’m sorry and I shouldn’t’ve–”

“Buck, geez, shut it, willya?”  Bucky ceased his babbling, staring down at his husband.  Steve dropped his arm and heaved another big sigh.  He seemed like he was struggling to explain something.  Finally he found the words.  “I just…  All I wanted was to try something different.  And I tried it.  I liked it for a while.  But…  It wasn’t me?  I guess.”

“Steve, it was you.  It was all you.”

Steve’s grin got more devious.  “Well, I didn’t _not_ hate it then.  I was just kinda ambivalent, I guess.  Experimentin’.”

After all that…  Just like this, the beard was gone.  It had vanished, shaved out of existence, erased from Steve’s face like it had never been there at all.  Bucky couldn’t wrap his head around this.  “But you kept defending it like it was so important.”

“Well, that was just me bein’ an asshole.  Pushin’ buttons,” Steve confessed with a cocked eyebrow and shit-eating grin.  “Teasin’.”

Bucky socked him in the belly lightly, and he gave an _oomf_ and a little, chuckling cry.  His arms flew around Bucky, tugging him close, and Bucky went, laughing and settling into Steve’s side.  He leaned up and kissed him hard, feasting his senses on _that,_ on smooth, _smooth_ skin and soft lips and no bristle of beard to distract him.  He rolled over Steve a little, pinning him and kissing harder and deeper into Steve’s mouth.

When he pulled away, he just stared at a second.  This dumb punk face…  God, it meant everything to him, beard or no beard.  It meant everything to the _world._   “You can grow it back,” he offered.  “Like you need my permission.”

“I don’t, but thanks,” Steve said cheekily.  He tugged Bucky down more on top of him.  “Maybe when I get feelin’ adventurous.  Besides, I’m sure this’ll have everyone all worked up again.  Christ, people were so fucking torqued up over a beard.  I mean, I’m flattered that everyone liked it so much, but it’s all I heard last night.  It’s all I’ve been hearing for _weeks_.  The beard wasn’t some statement or monumental choice or a sign of my inner feelings or an existential crisis or _anything_ that important.”

Bucky barely held back a blush for all the time he’d spent wondering himself.  “Nope.”

“I mean, is the state of my stupid jaw worth all that hullabaloo?”

“Well, it is the jaw of justice,” Bucky said sweetly, dragging his forefinger along the smooth edge of Steve’s face, trailing it to his lips where Steve nipped at it playfully.  “People care about that an awful lot.”

“Yeah, I suppose,” Steve conceded.  “But, for Pete’s sake…  Sometimes a beard’s just a beard.”

**THE END**


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